


suppression

by MackerelGray



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Panic Attacks, Purring, Purry AU, Self-Harm, is really bad with Emotions, probably way angstier than the premise would have you believe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-08-29 15:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MackerelGray/pseuds/MackerelGray
Summary: Connor’s hands are shaking.They should really stop, he can’t afford to cut a vital biocomponent in his neck at three o’clock in the morning, but they absolutely refuse to steady.He thinks it’s the pain getting to him.---an AU where androids need to purr to express emotions and Connor fucks himself over with bad 3 AM decisionsa somehow-even-angstier variant of sky_blue_hightops's "Static" (where instead of a heart-to-heart between our favorite boys we get this)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Static](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16703785) by [sky_blue_hightops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_blue_hightops/pseuds/sky_blue_hightops). 



> hello I was inspired to write fanfic for the first time in literal years by purring androids
> 
> yall should read Static! - it's really good and i'm basically writing a worst-case-scenario au of it, hehe

Connor’s hands are shaking.

They should really stop, he can’t afford to cut a vital biocomponent in his neck at three o’clock in the morning, but they absolutely _refuse_ to steady.

He thinks it’s the pain getting to him. The aching pressure in his throat like he’s being strangled by his own breath, the matching hollowness in his chest where he desperately _needs_ to feel a purr - nevermind how with his current stress levels it would stutter and choke with static, nevermind how it would upset Hank if he woke up and _heard it -_

He just needs to stop the pain, he just needs to stop the purring, then everything will be okay.

He brings the pocket knife up to his throat, smooth white plastic folded back to expose ventilation tube and wires and boxes. One of those little boxes is the purr modulator, the stupid thing that’s been wracking him with pain since Stratford Tower. He just needs to cut it out. He just needs to _cut it out_ and the pain will go away and he can _relax_ around Hank again.

In the bathroom mirror, his LED glows blood red.

* * *

Connor greets the sun with his first full, painless breath in _weeks._  He shivers with the relief bubbling in his chest. The purr modulator was safely taken out with the rest of the trash - it left severed wires in his throat, but nothing that would impede his other systems.

It’s _over._  The pain is gone and the purring is _gone_ and the tension he had been holding around Hank is evaporating like thirium in the sun.

He grins and jumps up to get his suit.

* * *

Predictably, it doesn’t last.

The pain returns with a vengeance, itch in the back of his throat in the morning turning to a burn and then to a _blaze,_ heat working its way down his chest and _warping_ things, twisting his thirium pump into a knot and making him gag -

_he doesn’t have time for this -_

And he says as much, turning the pain outwards and snapping at people, snapping at _Hank,_  because he can’t purr and he definitely can’t cry but he _needs_ to stop the tightening in his chest and if this is the only way then so be it.

It’s counterproductive to snipe at his partner and wish for a growl to echo his words, to watch Hank’s face tighten with ~~concern~~ hurt, to feel that hurt hardening into guilt in the back of his throat.

* * *

It’s counterproductive to be in a bad temper on a case but that’s exactly what Connor is doing. He and Hank have been assigned to a string of murders and all the signs are pointing to the murderer being another _fucking_ anti-android _idiot_ and Connor _can’t deal with this right now -_

Hank is looking at him weird. He’s been looking at Connor weird all day and Connor doesn’t know if it’s hurt or worry or anger in his eyes. They haven’t talked since Hank had asked him,

 _“Kid, what the_ fuck’s _going on with you today?”_

(there was ~~worry~~ in those eyes)

and Connor snapped back, voice corrupting around the edges with stress,

 _“Just get in the car,_ Lieutenant."

The simmering guilt does nothing to alleviate the pain but he doesn’t know how to apologize. He wants to, he wants to so badly he’s shaking with it -

_shaking?_

He needs to calm down. It’s _fine._ The pain is ~~not~~ getting better. ~~Amanda~~ Hank won’t be angry at him for having a single bad day.

He moves to take out his coin and -

_(oh.)_

It’s not there.

(There was another… _event,_ at Stratford Tower. _You’re starting to piss me off with that coin, Connor!)_

He redirects the movement to straighten his tie, pulling the knot hard against his neck because _maybe it will help?_

The air  _burns_  down his throat. 

* * *

They’re at the crime scene, an alleyway (how _stereotypical_ _)_ already lined with flashing holograms and fading splatters of thirium. The place is already bustling with officers (he scans them and gets through Wilson, Miller, and Davis before he gives up _he can’t concentrate)_ _._ They’re stepping carefully around, marking evidence that Hank immediately makes a beeline for.

Connor goes to follow him, but the victim draws his attention. She looks - _wrong._ Makes sense, she was _murdered_ a few hours ago, but -

_something’s missing._

He walks over to get a better look and _freezes._

Her throat, it’s _ripped out,_ wires and plastic and a grisly halo of thirium around the wound but that’s not the worst part _no_ -

There is a knife. Stabbed perfectly in the center of her purr modulator, cleaving it in two.

He can’t -

_(he needs to purr)_

_(the fire in his throat is twisting into a hot knife and he needs to purr but he can’t **he can’t** ) _

Distantly he hears Hank walking over, asking what Connor has found and -

He can’t _reconstruct_ it Hank he can’t _breathe -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the outline has hugs and comfort at some point but for now just have some good old Quality Angst
> 
> (connor? redirecting his stress into snark? its more likely than you think)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry belated Christmas y'all! Have some more Anxiety(TM) and a Good Parent Hank Anderson

Connor wakes to white. White walls, white sheets, white lines on a little screen tracing the beat of his thirium pump.

It takes him a beat to process the information. _Hospital._ New Jericho’s? It’s the only place he knows that’s actually specialized for android patients. But he feels -

...fine?

The white-hot pain in his throat is gone. He raises a hand to his neck to find the skin retracted, chrome plating exposed to the air. Trying to reactivate it makes a warning pop up in his visual feed.

[INTEGRATING BIOCOMPONENT #9280A. SKIN RETRACTED FOR TECHNICIAN ACCESS.]

Oh. He has a new purr modulator.

Connor doesn’t know how to interpret the sudden twist in his gut - anxiety? guilt? frustration? It makes the white line of his heartbeat spike and he twists up to get a better look before realizing he’s not alone in the room.

The plastic hospital chair is occupied. And he’d recognize that shaggy gray hair anywhere.

“...Hank?”

Hank’s head snaps up from where it lolled on his shoulders, and he’s by Connor’s side in an instant.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you scared the fuck outta me!” He looks drawn, his face tight with worry.

The twisting is growing stronger. Connor thinks it might be guilt.

“Sorry.” It sounds too small against the weight of what’s happening. He resists the urge to fidget with the hem of his shirt. (His jacket and tie are gone. He desperately wants them back.)

“ _Sorr -_ You don’t have to apologize, I’m just glad you’re not dead!” Hank rubs a hand over his face. “What were you _thinking,_ tearing out your goddamn throat like that?”

Connor had been hoping against hope that Hank didn’t know what happened. That he could pass off collapsing as something else, a motor malfunction, anything other than what actually happened, that they could go home without talking about it - what could he even _say?_

“I-” It feels like his throat is closing up again. He fixes his gaze on the floor. “I knew you didn’t like purring so I tried to - suppress it. For a while.” _Please don’t ask how long._ “My throat started to hurt, but it was minor enough that I could ignore it. But it kept getting worse, so I - cut out my purr modulator.”

It sounds really stupid when summed up like that.

Hank sounds aghast. “You didn’t take the pain as a sign you should, I dunno, _go to the hospital?_ ”

“It wasn’t important.” _It was better than you hating me._

“Of course it’s fucking _important,_ you-!” Connor flinches at the anger in his voice, and Hank stops. He takes a measured breath. When he starts again, his voice is soft. “Connor, look at me.”

He slowly raises his eyes to the Lieutenant’s and finds them - uncertain? ashamed? worried?

“You really cut out your purr whatchamacallit -”

“- modulator -”

“- because I said I didn’t like purring?”

“...Yes.” Connor can’t look him in the eye.

“Jesus Christ, _Connor_ -” Hank buries his face in his hands. When he looks up again, his eyes are old and tired. “Don’t fucking _hurt_ yourself like that. Not on my account.”

He pauses, trying to find the right words. “I have a hundred issues, but you’re not one of ‘em, okay? I’m sorry I made you think you were.”

Connor isn’t sure what he was expecting. Definitely not what just happened. He feels like -

He feels like he can breathe again.

When Hank drags him into a hug, he doesn’t resist. It feels like home.

He _purrs._


End file.
